


A Love Story For The Six Page

by frankiewhore (stomachaches)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, The Devil Wears Prada (2006), The Used
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Devil Wears Prada, Asshole Gerard Way, Boss/Employee Relationship, Editor-in-Chief Gerard, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Fashion & Couture, Gerard is a Bitch, Love/Hate, M/M, Personal Assistant Frank, Red Haired Gerard Way, Runway - Freeform, Slow Build, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stomachaches/pseuds/frankiewhore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh out of college, Frank Iero has no clue what to expect when he first sets foot in the <em>Runway</em> offices to interview for a job <q>a million girls would die for</q>.</p><p>Soon he knows way too much.</p><p>He knows that size four is the new eight. He knows that no matter what happens, you can never let Gerard's coffee run cold. He knows that even if it's three in the morning, if your boss calls, you jump. He knows that working in the fashion business comes with sacrifices and loneliness. He knows that this is a place for pretending, so he plays along - after all, this is his big break, and it's all going to be worth it in the end.</p><p>What he doesn't understand is a feeling he's starting to get when he looks into Gerard's eyes. There's just something about this strange man, who makes his life a living hell, that Frank can't seem to get out of his head. He keeps pretending, but soon he finds everything slowly falling apart - and he can do nothing but stare.</p><p>But it's all going to be worth in the end. Isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Blue to Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! Yay.
> 
> It's really long and the beginning is basically a rewrite of the original, but the following chapters are more interesting. Or they were intended to, at least.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the characterization, because almost everyone working at _Runway_ is a snob asshole. I'm pretty sure fashion editors in real life are not like this... but yeah, who knows?
> 
> Also, English is not my first language and it's unbeta'd, so if you spot any mistakes please let me know in the comments.
> 
> The title is from Lana Del Rey's _National Anthem_ , because _Born To Die_ is my guilty pleasure.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3

Frank jolts awake sweat-soaked and shivering, a feeling much too familiar to him. Whole head pounding, stomach uncomfortably and painfully churning, palms wet in an extremely unsexy way – _here we fucking go again_ , he thinks. As he lies there, trying to collect himself and form a coherent thought, he can only think back to the thousand times he has experienced this or something hauntingly similar – the feeling of his ridiculously weak immune system giving up _again_ and submitting his body to whatever illness found him that time. Anything from a common cold or flu to a serious case of pneumonia, Frank probably had it at some point of his barely-23-year-long existence. Just when he accepts the fact of getting sick once more, and being unable to function for a couple of weeks, tiny snippets come back to him from the night before. Stale cigarette smoke, the chattering of friends – _Ray, maybe?_ – later suppressed by a deafeningly loud, shitty punk band, the taste of beer and then something stronger, jumping in the crowd, shoving off someone who’s trying to grope him, more beer – _Ah._

Ah. Just a hangover.

Although this realization does nothing to relieve his nausea, Frank is unspeakably grateful for such a mundane reason to feel so shitty, and lets himself stare at the ceiling for a few more minutes. Everything comes back slowly – he is back in good ol’ ‘Murica after a summer of backpacking in Europe with his girlfriend, Jamia. It was just the thing they needed after graduation, and Frank truly loved every single minute, the crappy motel beds and the weird accents of the locals, the Italian sun and the English clouds, but sickness once again vanquished him and they had to return from the three-month trip a week earlier than planned. He did not want to go back to his parents’ house, though, so he crashed at his best friend, Mikey’s place after returning (who, despite hating New York with every inch of his being, rented a cheap flat in the city, and simply refuses to tell Frank why he has done such thing every time he asks).

No matter how he loved Jamia with all his heart, they needed some time apart after a whole summer together, and for the first time in his life he wanted to recover from that food poisoning without either his mom or girlfriend – the two women he loved the most in the world – pampering him. He and Jamia were high school sweethearts, and despite everyone telling them they would eventually break up when they got together as naïve seventeen-year-olds, their relationship was stronger than ever even after six years. As a little, angsty punk teen he always thought he will inevitably die alone, and albeit not being ready yet to settle down (he does not even have a job, let alone a career, for fuck’s sake) and do the whole two point five kids and white picket fence, over the last few years he became more and more sure that Jamia is the one he wants to grow old with. She was the one who inspired him to pay attention in school, who convinced him that constantly partying and smoking weed with so-called friends was not the way to go, and had it not been for her, he would have never followed his dreams to become a writer.

And here he is, a young, ambitious, perfectly cliché guy in the City, trying to get his big break as a writer - preferably at _The New Yorker_ , and yes, he knows that is even more of a cliché, and no, he does not care. Besides Jamia, the magazine has always been his biggest inspiration since the day he picked up his first-ever copy and started reading it, and whenever he reached the point when he just had fucking enough of everyone’s shit and just wanted to give up, he would grab his newest copy and read, read, read, and imagine what it would be like – Frank Iero, editor at _The New Yorker_ magazine! – and it was always enough to get him through all the nights spent bent over textbooks instead of sleeping or give him strength not to skip that lecture again. And those rare times when the fantasy of a flourishing career was not sufficient, Jamia held him and told him all sorts of wonderful things while he hid his face in the crook of her neck, and the next morning he would always wake up fresh and ambitious. He could only hope that one day he will be able to show her just how amazing and important she is.

But right now, Frank Iero is a just a punk-ass, broke, unemployed dreamer with too many tattoos. And the worst hangover of his life, damn it. He groans and manages to turn his head in the general direction of the floor, and after a few seconds spent trying to convince his eyes to just fucking _work_ and focus properly, he spots his beat-up phone on the floor next to him and picks it up. The screen lights up, blinding him, and he quickly locks his phone again after checking the time. _06:08_. What the actual fuck. Why on earth he would wake up at ass-o’clock in the morning, especially if he got so wasted last night?

The answer is given to him as his phone suddenly comes alive and rings deafeningly loud (for probably not the first time that morning, but Frank just cannot be bothered to check his missed calls right now). He quickly mutes it and looks at the screen, confused. The number is hidden, and he can barely fight the urge to just throw his phone out of the window, but instead he groans and picks it up.

"Yeah?" he mumbles, and the pounding in his head immediately worsens.

"Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Frank Iero?" answers a surprisingly enthusiastic female voice, and honestly, if Frank still had any doubts about throwing up, now he is pretty sure that sugary tone will do the rest of the work his hangover could not.

"Yes, who’s that?" _And why exactly do you have to call at six a.m., fucker_ , but he does not add that afterthought.

"I am Sharon from human resources at Elias-Clark. I believe you left you résumé here about a few days ago?"

Frank suddenly does not feel so sleepy or nauseous anymore.

* * *

After not doing anything – like, literally, anything – for a whole week but laying around on Mikey’s couch all day, his best friend’s patience had finally ended, which resulted in Frank being kicked out from the apartment ( _‘just fucking leave for one fucking hour, dude, your face annoys the shit outta me’_ ). So he grabbed his ancient laptop and earphones and occupied a corner in the nearest café he could find, and sat there a few hours going over and rewriting his old résumé. He spent the following days dropping of copies of it at all the big magazine publishers, with a cover letter saying he wanted to gain some magazine writing experience. Honestly, the last thing he expected was an interview, but at least he had the illusion of doing something useful. After the phone call, however, it turned out that Elias-Clark wanted to have a little ‘chat’ – whatever that meant.

The thing he does not really understand was why on earth this woman was calling him at such an unreasonable hour, and why do they want to ‘chat’ on that very day. But hey, he got an actual interview and he might score a job – even if it is just fetching coffee and getting phone calls, at least he can get some experience and maybe enough money to rent an apartment somewhere and move out of Mikey’s tiny Harlem flat.

He has the appointment at eleven a.m., so he allows himself to sleep two more hours after he gets off the phone. Then he takes some Advil and washes it down with a mere four shots of espresso. He manages to get off yesterday’s general dirt and grease under the shower, then quickly dries his hair, and throws on a clean shirt with jeans and his least worn out pair of Converse. He gradually feels his hangover going away, and by the time he is dressed, it is practically gone. Mikey chooses to come out of his bedroom just as he is checking himself out in the mirror, his always-immaculate blond hair now sticking up in all directions.

"Hey –", he squints at Frank, confused. "What the fuck, man, it’s like, dawn – what the hell are you doing?"

"Job interview", Frank cannot help the glint of pride in his voice. "And no, it’s almost ten, Sleeping Beauty", he adds with a cheery smile.

"Uh, get the hell away from me, Iero", he grunts, hung-over and still too sleepy to comprehend what he just heard.

"Love you too, Mikes, wish me luck", he grabs his keys and Metro Card and heads out the door before he can hear the blond one’s response.

* * *

He gets lost only twice before he arrives at the elegant Elias-Clark building, which is a massive achievement since he moved to the city just a few weeks ago, thank you very much. After checking the time – 10:44, perfect – he takes a deep breath and goes inside.

And no, Frank was not nervous, not until this point. Now, though, he has to realize how truly fucked he is.

If the building looked elegant from the outside, well, he does not really have the appropriate vocabulary for the inside. The hall is open and massive, tasteful warm browns and black marbles mixing with the light golden decoration. The people are rushing past him like they are still outside on the street, on their phones – _‘I’m afraid the meeting will have to be postponed, since Mr Rush-‘_ , chattering with colleagues – _‘Can you believe that bitch actually said that to_ me _?’_ – and generally looking Very Serious. Oh god, the people –

 _Clack, clack, clack_. A colorful sea of skinny, Twiggy-like girls in the newest designer clothes, not a single one of them above size zero or under 5’8”, plus an added at-least-4-inch-high pair of stilettos. How can these stupid high heels make this awful noise? _Clackers_. Not exactly masculine (or heterosexual-looking, for that case) men in skin-tight jeans, V-necks and polished shoes, and dear, dear god, eyeliners… Very Serious middle-aged businessmen in suits, and fuck, even the guards are better dressed than him, and Frank wants to disappear, because every corner shouts _Prada! Chanel! Eating disorders!_ at him, and if there is one place he definitely does not belong to, it is this one.

He spots the reception and practically runs for it, before his panic really sets in.

The guy sitting behind the desk shoots him an amused look, but does not make any comments as he passes him a guest sticker and lets him in. He quickly hops inside an elevator, two Gisele Bündchen-wannabe looking girls following him, their glossy lips never stopping, stupid, meaningless crap tumbling out of their mouths.

"I mean, you know how he is, and the September issue was just being put together and she managed to –" Clacker One says, seemingly entertained by her own story.

The other girl starts sniggering, and Frank feels his brain cells slowly die inside his head.

"No, no, stop, I don’t believe you! Like, like, everyone, like, knows what a massive…" Clacker Two replies, hands flailing around, like this is the best thing she has ever heard.

"Yeeeaah, totally, like, she’s such a damn. Stupid. _Bitch_. Oh god…"

Frank coughs, irritated, and he immediately regrets it after they both look at him like he is infected with the plague, but at least Ebola. It takes a few seconds for Clacker Two to tear her eyes from his Chucks and recover from the oh-so-disgusting sight, but ah, when she does…

"But like, y’know, this is totally unbelievable, even for someone like-"

Frank stares at the little monitor in the elevator and sighs. 10:53. Six more floors to go.

* * *

 

Sharon turns out to be not that sickeningly sweet in real life as her voice on phone would have suggested, but still, she is ridiculously cheerful. She smiles from behind her desk as she shakes Frank’s hand, and gestures him to have a seat. Behind her, there are framed covers from all the Elias-Clark magazines, and Frank is suddenly nervous. Does he get to have a choice? He studies the pictures. Cooking magazine, news magazine, and that one is fitness or woman’s maybe… He stops and stares at the fashion one for a long second. _Please,_ please _not that one_. He tears his eyes away and shoots a smile to Sharon, which was meant to be charming but probably looked really creepy.

"Thank you, Sharon, for going through my résumé and calling me, really, it’s a –"

"Do you like cars?" she interrupts as if she does not have the time for such unnecessary small talk.

Frank is so taken aback he forgets to lie and he blurts out a ‘no’ before he realizes his mistake.

"I mean, um, yes! I totally love cars, and… uh, race cars especially. Yeah, I-I… always used to watch Formula-1 with my dad back at home… Y’know, father-son bonding time, huh…" A look at Sharon’s skeptical expression and he reconsiders. "Uh, okay, I’m not that much into cars, but I know a few…" He sighs, giving up. "Okay. No. I don’t know a thing about cars and I’m not particularly interested, to be honest. But I know that in case - " and once again, he is interrupted by her firm, I-don’t-have-time-for-your-bullshit voice.

"Okay, honey, fashion it is then!" she announces with a toothpaste-ad worthy smile.

 _What the actual fuck_.

"Um… Fashion?" he squints at her, waiting for the punchline.

"We have two open positions, one at _Auto Universe_ and one at _Runway_. And since you just said that you are not interested in cars, I presume the latter would be more fitting."

Frank just looks at her, directs his gaze at his shoes, then back at Sharon.

"Yeah. Totally. Couldn’t think of a more _fitting_ position. So fitting." He tries to sound as bitchy as possible. Very fitting indeed.

The smile suddenly disappears from her face, and Frank would swear her eyes just got a shade darker.

"Either _Runway_ or _Auto Universe_. That’s what we have, honey." Frank has never been more terrified his entire life.

"Um, maybe… if I come back next week there might be more openings?" He knows he should not push his luck, but please, no cars and no fashion, anything but these two.

"I’m quite certain there won’t be _any_ -thing next week." _Oh, I bet you’re certain, bitch_.

He seriously does not have a clue what possesses him when he mutters ' _Runway_ ' a split second later, immediately regretting it.

Sharon’s bright smile is instantly back. "Then _Runway_ it is, honey." She looks at him, obviously entertained and maybe – gloating, even? And if Frank still has any hope that this woman is at least a bit sane, she then goes ahead and opens her mouth again. "Oh, Mr Iero, if you only knew what an ah-may-zing opportunity this is! Believe me when I say, a million girls would kill their own mothers for this job."

A bit of further discussion later, Frank practically sprints out the door, not daring to let out the breath he is holding until he is back in the elevator again.

* * *

 

"Frank Iero?"

A few minutes later and what seemed like a thousand floors below, Frank is standing in front of a skinny, blonde girl dressed up in clothes which, Frank is pretty sure, cost more than his college tuition. Her messy-but-oh-so-chic bun is framing her scowling face perfectly; her ruby red lips pressed together, a folder clutched in her manicured hands.

Frank did not know until now how can you humiliate someone so much with a mere look that they lose all their vim, but luckily for him, you can learn something new every day.

"Yes."

"Wonderful. Who put you up for this job again?"

"Uh… Human Resources?" she snorts unattractively at that, and shakes her head in disbelief.

"They do have an odd sense of humor" she sighs, then announces: "Lindsey Ballato. Follow me", and she is fucking gone, already made her way behind a thousand glass doors (what the hell is with the glass doors and walls here anyway?). Frank finds himself rushing after her, and he only realizes after about a minute that she is actually talking to him.

"...of course, it’s hard, no doubt about that. Expect an average of fourteen-hour workdays, no editorial work at all. The job you are applying for is the junior assistant, so basically, you will make sure his needs are always accommodated. This covers all the basic stuff – coffee, lunch, dry cleaning, but also accompanying him to certain social events if he sees fit. But, oh, it’s always fun and challenging, and you get to spend your days with this legend of a man. Work one year for him, and you’ll get a job anywhere in publishing – whether at Elias-Clark or somewhere else, even abroad, he can and will arrange it with a snap of his fingers."

She abruptly stops in between two wooden desks, and puts her hands on her hips dramatically. "A million girls would kill for this job, working for _him_ … But it’s not like I have to introduce Gerard Rush to anyone, right?" She gets this really creepy, dreamy look on her face which makes Frank worry for her sanity.

He stares, confused. "Who?"

Her eyes go wide, jaw dropping. "Oh. My. God. I’m so going to pretend you never said that. He is the editor-in-chief of _Runway_." She gives him a quick once-over, then forces a smile. "You know that _Runway_ is a fashion magazine, right, Frank? So, one would assume you do comprehend that interest in fashion, is, uh, crucial." Her fake smile makes Frank want to yank her stupid stiletto off and bash her skull in with the sharp heel, but he only smiles back, not sure what to say.

But he does not have to come up with an answer because her phone beeps, and she immediately drops the folders from her hand and checks her new message. As she is reading it, a look of terror Frank has never seen before appears on her pretty face – which is saying something, since he watched all the B-category horror flicks in existence.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no" she starts chanting in a high-pitched voice, and then shoots Frank a murderous glance. "You. Sit down on that chair," she points behind one desk, "and do not move, make any noise or _eye contact_ , for that matter." Then she disappears, screaming something about coffee, and Frank sits there, really hoping he is not fucking breathing too loud for this girl’s liking, because he does not have a doubt that if he does, she would kill him at the first given opportunity. Is everyone a fucking psycho at this place?

"He’s on his way, everyone! And pissed off" Lindsey announces somewhere outside, then she is back, with a short, dark haired man next to her. "He shouldn’t be here today, just in the afternoon, oh _Jesus_! The damn colorist caught the flu. God, these _people_!"

"Two minutes on top, folks! Man your battle stations!" he shouts, then stops in front of Frank. "Who is that?" he asks Lindsey in disbelief, but obviously does not expect an answer. He is wearing eyeliner and skin-tight pants, and is so flamboyantly gay he could not possibly work anywhere else but – of course – a fashion magazine. He drops some boxes on the desk in front of Frank, makes a face, and then rushes off.

The whole office went crazy in a few seconds. Everyone Frank can see is running around, carrying boxes or various pieces of clothing or paper. Others are applying makeup, fixing their hair, or organizing their desks – he can sense the panic and stress in the air.

Lindsey runs into the fancy office just past where Frank is sitting, lays out a thousand magazines and newspapers, pours a drink, positions a coffee, pens, pieces of paper in a matter of seconds. Phone beeping again, she screams "He is heeeeeeeere, people!" then grabs her folders and she is out of the office again. And Frank sees everything stilling outside the glass walls as he sits there, more confused than he has ever been.

He sits there in the abrupt silence, waiting for something, _anything_ that would tell him what the hell is going on.

Not a minute later, he hears someone approaching the office, speaking in a quiet, steady voice, slightly muffled by the door.

"-Let’s try Donatella first. Then I want Michael, Simone, and then Gaga. I want the, ah, November cover with her, preferably…"

Lindsey pushes the glass door open for an elegant young man in a dark blue wool coat, black scarf carelessly draped over his neck and shoulder. He is not very tall, he can’t be above 6 feet, but he has a perfect posture, head held high; his hands are feminine and manicured. He wears a tight shirt with small dots on it, black pants, a white, pointed shoe and an expensive-looking handbag. But what really catches Frank’s eye is what above his neck – cheekbones so high you can cut yourself with it, sunglasses still on. And then there’s the hair.

Long, almost shoulder-length, fiery red hair, so in contrast with his ice-cold appearance and monotone voice that Frank is slightly taken aback. He is almost in front of him, his quiet talking never stops, and if anything, he looks bored – and fucking amazing.

Next to him, Lindsey seems like a teenager who dresses from American Apparel, and the man with his one-of-a-kind appearance somehow manages to tower above her despite the few inches at the expense of his own between them. She is furiously scrabbling down notes while keeping up with his pace.

"… Although it depends on the press in the next few weeks; I need you to keep track on that; anything I dislike, we will just pull out some actress from somewhere. Has she lost any weight yet, by the way? And tell Pete we need to discuss that shoot – also, tell everyone else it would be just amazing if he was not the only one who actually came here to work. Sometimes it just feels like –"

He does not bother to finish, but makes a dismissive motion with his hand that is ought to explain everything. He drops his coat and bag on Lindsey’s desk, and then continues into the office. "Also, whoever came up with that stupid fur idea, fire them. We do not need those lunatic activists again just because no one can come up with anything creative for the winter season. Tell them to keep the dead animals in the closet for a few years before it comes back. And the same goes for all the floral ideas for the spring, by the way, it’s dull. Who’s that?" he asks, same tone, and Frank is so damn nervous he is pretty sure he is about to faint.

Lindsey’s eyes dart at him like she has already forgotten Frank is still there, then back at the man. "Oh, that’s…" she hesitates for a second, then shakes her head. "HR sent him about the new assistant job. But I’ve pre-interviewed him and I can assure you, he’s absolutely wrong for it, so he was just leaving."

"Oh." He takes of his sunglasses and eyes her for a few seconds. "Considering how idiotic your last choice was, I don’t think it’s your place to tell if someone is _wrong for this_ or not. I clearly have to decide for myself in every petty little matter, since everyone in this place is, well, an imbecile. Although, obviously, since you have such a high opinion of yourself, I don’t know how I didn’t notice, but you must be an exception, _Eliza_." Lindsey freezes as he stops for a second, making sure his words sink in. "So – send him in." He turns his back to her, grabs his coffee and takes a sip, and proceeds to sit down, every move slow, calculated and elegant. Once in his chair, he crosses his legs, sits down, and raises his eyebrows, clearly not understanding why she hasn't moved yet. "That’s all."

Lindsey forces a smile, nods, takes a few steps back to Frank and grimaces at him. "He wants to see you. Go."

Frank enters the office, his heart pounding.

* * *

The office is not less elegant than any other part of the building he has come across, but this is the first he has the feeling of being used a lot – not because it was run down by any means, but because the carefully chosen decoration gave an almost homey feeling to it. Flowers, the walls littered with sketches, photos of people who (Frank presumed) were important in the fashion world, mirrors, and one had a big photograph of Gerard and a young, slightly rebellious looking guy, both unsmiling, but still looking awesome.

Gerard is busy writing something, so Frank just stands there awkwardly for what seems like an hour, but cannot be more than a minute.

"And, who are you?" he finally looks at Frank, slightly less bored but his facial expression and tone still far from the social norm.

"My name is Frank Iero." He is so anxious he can feel the blood pounding in his ear, and he gives Gerard his résumé with a trembling hand, which he chooses to ignore.

"What brings you to _Runway_ , Frank?"

"Well, Mr. Rush –"

"Gerard" he corrects immediately.

"Yeah, yes, sorry, uh, Gerard… Um, well, I, I always adored fashion, so um –"

"What brings you to _Runway_?" he cuts him off, clearly not having any bullshit or wanting to endure the torture of small talk.

The question is so sudden that Frank cannot help but blurt out the truth. "I interviewed with Sharon at Human Resources and it’s basically this or _Auto Universe_."

At this, the corners of Gerard’s mouth twitch, and he seems pleased. _Okay then, honesty works_ , Frank thinks, feeling a tiny bit more confident.

He looks Gerard in the eye, takes a breath, and decides he is going to sell himself, hard.

"I graduated from Brown last year, with a major in English, and came to New York to be an editor. I was the editor-in-chief for the school magazine, but other than that, I have no experience whatsoever in this area, and my only job before was at a coffee shop while still studying. But I am quick to learn and I am sure I would be the perfect choice for this job, if you decide to give me a chance."

"Do you speak any languages?"

"I’m fluent in Italian."

He presses his lips together. "Italian is not bad. I was hoping for French though." He says it in a manner that Frank almost apologizes, but then gets himself together.

"I don’t speak a word of that, but I’m confident it won’t be a problem."

Again, his mouth twitches. Frank wants to make this man laugh, to feel that victory that someone so cold can break because of something he said.

"I must assume you are not particularly interested in fashion, are you, Frank?"

The hell with it. "No."

Gerard looks away from his face now, taking in everything, dissecting Frank from his cheap shoes to his wrists where a tattoo must be peeking out, but Frank is beyond caring about that. When he is back to eye contact again, it seems like Gerard _knows_ him – he knows him, and he is mocking and humiliating him, because he is so much below Gerard that it is the most amusing thing in the world.

"But I certainly look forward to learn about other people’s interest, and I’m sure fashion is unbelievably fascinating and, uh, _thought-provoking_. This is why I’m here, after all, to gain experience." Frank declares, wanting to get some reaction from Gerard. He is not sure whether he imagines the smile that ghosts on his lips for a split second or not.

By now, Frank should know that he does not bother to answer things like these. "Have you ever heard my name before this day, Frank?" he rolls the ‘r’ in his name as if he is tasting it. Frank fights his urge to flash a shit-eating grin at him.

"No, I haven’t."

"And please, tell me, have you ever picked up a copy of _Runway_ , Frank?"

He leans a bit forward before he answers, eyes glimmering with childish joy before he answers – honest, as Gerard Rush likes it.

"No."

At that moment, he knows he has the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and I'll love you forever.


	2. Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of old friends and first impressions.

“It doesn’t really sound like you’ve got the job.”

Frank is sitting on the couch with Jamia’s head in his lap, stroking her hair softly while they are talking to each other about their weeks spent separate. They are taking advantage of the empty flat; Jamia’s roommate travelled home for a few days, so now they can have a little peace for themselves. He just finished telling her about his interview and he cannot help the sinking feeling he gets in his stomach when he hears her opinion.

“And why would you want it, anyway? I mean, what the hell, Frankie? You know I support you and all, but you, working for a _fashion magazine_? That’s just – no” she snorts, playing with a loose thread on her shirt. She pauses for a few moments, thinking. “Though, it does sound like a good opportunity, if the guy is really that influential. So yeah, scratch what I said, just do it, babe. Go for it. Sell your soul to the nasty men in Gucci!” She exclaims with too much enthusiasm.

Frank laughs, kissing her forehead. “You can be damn sure I’m taking it if can. I mean, I can do this for one year or I can go somewhere else, do the same assistant job for like three years, and then maybe move on, maybe, but this way I can skip all that.”

Jamia sits up next to him, and smiles that beaming, heart-warming smile of her as she gently sweeps away a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “Whatever you choose, Frank, just remember that I love you, okay? I agree that this can be it for you, this can be what you’ve been waiting for, but I’m a bit afraid it’s gonna be too much, you know?”

He furrows his eyebrows, looking at her. “I can do it, Jamia, really, I can. If they want me for the position, that is.” His voice trembles a bit. It was easier back in college when he had essays and deadlines and grades and rules and a clear path to follow, professors to guide him, and now Frank is out in the real world, all on his own and –

Jamia kisses him slowly and carefully, and then snuggles close to him. She rests her head on his chest. “Why wouldn’t they?” And it’s settled, easy as that.

After getting comfortable, she grabs the TV remote, flicking to some late night show. They’ve been watching it for a few minutes when she speaks up again.

“What’s his name again? The _Runway_ guy’s?”

“Gerard.”

“Gerard?” She asks a couple of seconds later, clearly confused.

“Uh, yeah, Gerard Rush. He was weird, I called him Mr. Rush then he snapped at me and told me to call him Gerard. He doesn’t seem to like family names, said my forename too.”

“Huh. Well, I have my doubts, but let’s just hope for your sake that this is his oddest habit.”

Frank smiles and hugs her closer.

* * *

The shrill voice hits him like a heart attack as he awakes, his hand automatically reaching out to mute the source of the horrendous noise. He finds the damned phone and takes the call instinctively as he tiptoes out from the tiny bedroom in the vain hope that Jamia does not wake up, ready to end the life of whoever is on the other side of the line. _Didn’t they get the fucking note that it’s Saturday?_

But he only manages to grumble something incomprehensible, much to the displeasure to the caller.

“Frank? Am I talking to Frank Iero?” It’s a woman, definitely, her annoying voice a bit familiar.

Lindsey. The bitchy assistant. It’s _Runway_ , oh shit. Is it a good sign that they call now or is it a bad and why is Lindsey up at the crack of the dawn and oh shit, _Runway_.

“Yeah, it’s me, Lindsey.” He tries not to freak out and fails miserably as he nervously jumps around in the messy kitchen.

She sighs impatiently. “So, first of all, you are completely inadequate for this job and generally for any position that has remotely anything to do with fashion, I hope you know that. And also, Gerard has not made a single misstep since running this rather prestigious magazine, and by that I mean _none at all_. So I really, really hope, for your own sake and mine, that you don’t turn out to be the first mistake, Frank.” She pauses, probably not for the dramatic effect, but to get herself together and fight the urge to say some more things which would definitely cross the line. “So, welcome to the _Runway_ family. You start on Monday, six a.m. sharp. I will email you the contract and work details in a few hours.”

“Oh fuck yes!” He cries out rather professionally and he can practically hear Lindsey’s eye roll, but he is so past caring. Not bothering to react to all her insults (which will probably be an everyday occurrence from this point, he realizes), he only says, “There’s no way I can start on Monday though. I don’t have a place in the city right now.”

She chuckles. “To quote myself, welcome to the _Runway_ family, Frank.”

The line goes dead.

* * *

“I don’t know, man. I just don’t wanna annoy Mikey even more and Jamia shares with this other chick.”

After telling the news to his girlfriend and making celebratory morning pancakes, he called Ray and asked for a huge favor. Renting a decent apartment in New York is fucking expensive and Frank is not in the mood to look for tolerable roommates – other than Ray, that is. After all, they have known each other since high school.

“You mean you don’t want to sleep on a couch until you get your first paycheck,” Ray responds, and the following silence says everything. “My place is not _that_ much bigger than his.” Frank hums a bit, and contemplates begging before the other finally succumbs with a deep sigh. “I’ll have to ask my landlord first and you will have to pay back half the rent when you manage to get some money.”

Relief washes over him and his tight hold on the phone in his hand loosens up a bit. “Oh God, thank you dude, I fucking love you, okay? Seriously, you have no idea how much this means to me.” Right now, he just wants to wrap up Ray into his arms and kiss him. Luckily for everyone, he is not present in the room; otherwise it would certainly lead to some uncomfortable moments.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Meet you tonight then. You can probably move in on the next weekend, so try and survive until then somehow.”

As they say their goodbyes, he smiles to himself. _This is happening, really happening, and it’s going to be awesome. Fucking Elias-Clark, damn it._

* * *

He is meeting Mikey and Ray in some dark, loud bar, the kind of which people at their age spend all their time in. He is the last one to arrive, naturally; the other two are always twenty minutes early, no matter where they go, but at least it means they already got him a beer by the time he gets there. He flops down on one of the bar stools and takes a big gulp. “Hey!”

“Well hello, pretty one. When were you planning on telling me the big news?” Mikey asks in a mocking high-pitched voice, leaning forward, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Whoa, I thought he was the one getting a job at Pansy Mag, not you, dude,” Ray laughs, entertained by Mikey’s little show.

“Just because I got work at a fashion magazine, I still feel a hundred percent heterosexual, thank you very much,” Frank grumbles, playing with a coaster.

Mikey winks and licks his lips. “Ooh, baby, don’t get your panties in a twist, we love you.” He puts his hands on Frank’s left one, who almost falls out of his seat trying to get away. ”We are family. We are the Non-Judging Breakfast Club.” He announces dramatically.

“You’ve been watching way too much Gossip Girl, sweetheart. I mean, the clothes weren’t even _good_ after season three!” Ray adds, fake-horrified.

Frank throws up his hand, trying to hold back the smile that is starting to form on his lips. “You’re supposed to be the straight and manly one, Ray!” He shouts.

“Well, what can I say, Ed Westwick is wick-ed hot.”

Frank finally breaks out in loud laughter and Mikey groans at the terrible attempt at a pun before joining in, while Ray just smiles into his beer.

“I fucking missed you, man,” Frank grins at his friend, patting his shoulder.

Ray smirks back. “Thinkin’ of me every night in Europe while watching the stars? Wishing I was there with you?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“You bet your sorry ass I did.”

Mikey huffs and pokes him. "Don't believe a word he says, he told me the same last night after sex."

"Unbelievable. Next thing you know he's got a girlfriend."

“I know, right?”

Frank rolls his eyes.

“No, seriously, Frank, apart from the fact that Ray had to tell me, your _best-fucking-friend_ , how the hell did you get a job at a fashion magazine? Was it a phone interview?” Frank flips him off while Ray goes “Ooh, snap!”

“It’s just the fact that I’m fuckin’ pretty even in shitty clothes. I’m irresistible and everyone knows it. Even rigid, snobbish editor-in-chiefs.”

Mikey grows quiet after that, fidgeting with his fingers. “I just… I really don’t get it. I don’t get why you would do such thing.” Frank furrows his eyebrows, not sure if he really has a problem with him getting this goddamned job or simply acting weird.

“Mikes, hey, I’m not selling out, alright? It’s just, a great opportunity. One year and I won’t even go near a designer shoe ever–“

“No, uh, I get that. Just– what’s the name of the magazine again? I don’t think Ray said it.” Mikey cuts him off, looking at him with his poker face back on.

He is acting awfully weird, but Frank is not about to comment on it. “ _Runway_. Don’t worry, I’ve never heard of it before either,” he adds when he sees Mikey's face falling.

Ray breaks the uncomfortable tension by tsk-ing sounds. “Frankie, Frankie, my dear, you bring a shame on your family.”

Mikey does that thing with his mouth when he does not really smile, but his mask breaks a bit and the corners of his mouth twitch; Frank had known him for at least a year before he noticed this little change of expression. But now at least he knows that Mikey’s alright; he does not want a (he has to admit, possibly idiotic) career choice to come between them. Still, his reaction was certainly strange; Mikey never makes a fuss out of anything.

With a shake of his head and a deep sigh, he raises his drink. “I’d like to propose a toast, gentlemen.”

Ray looks skeptically at the half empty glasses of cheap beer. “How classy of you, Frank” he comments, but holds up his own anyway. Mikey hesitates for a few seconds, but then joins in.

“We might be broke and desperate and sleep-deprived and having an existential crisis, which leads to the inevitable crumble of our self-respect and make us go and accept a work at a fashion magazine- “

“Uh-huh, speak for yourself, man.”

“- As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, it doesn’t matter, because, as always, no matter what happens – we have each other, guys.”

Ray and Mikey aww-s, the latter putting his free hand on his heart.

“So, on that note… I’d like to propose this toast to straight men working at fashion magazines.” They clink their glasses together while Ray laughs quietly.

“Knew it, you little fucker. Trying to hide up your cheesiness as always.”

They all take a big gulp, the beer leaving a bitter but familiar taste in Frank’s mouth.

* * *

“Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, fuckity fuck, fucking shit, _shit_!” Frank screeches, his voice piercing through the quiet flat. Seconds later, he can hear Mikey’s groan from behind his closed bedroom door.

“Shut up, man. And wow, A+ on your vocab, no wonder you majored in English!” He half-yells in a still sleepy voice.

 _Shit, shit, shit_. Frank somehow slept through his alarm, and now it was almost half past five. He needs at least forty minutes to get to the Elias-Clark building, and he has not even brushed his teeth, let alone found something remotely appropriate to wear.

He skips coffee and shower and somehow manages to get ready in under ten minutes, run down the stairs and hail a taxi just before an elder man gets inside while screaming “sorry, sorry, sorry”.

“One World Trade Center, West Street, I pay triple if you get me there by six,” he says out of breath. _God, he should work out_.

The taxi driver does not answer, but starts to maneuver the car in the morning traffic.

Frank tries and fails to calm his nerves in the following thirty minutes, alternating between drumming his fingertips on his knees and wiping the sweat off his palms, checking the time on his phone twice a minute. Three minutes before six, he writes a text to Lindsey, deleting and retyping at least five times before tapping the send button.

_ill be about 10mins late, I overslept, im so sorry_

His phone beeps almost immediately, and he really, really does not want to read the message, but he forces himself to open it.

_Congratulations. You can shove that apology up you-know-where. And, for future reference, nobody cares about your personal problems here. That includes excuses as well._

Frank winces, cursing himself for not setting multiple alarms. Seeing that they are getting near the building, he fishes his wallet from his pocket, getting out his last crumpled banknotes. The car stops as they hit another red traffic light and Frank throws much more money than necessary at the driver.

“I’ll get out here, thanks, man.”

He does not wait for an answer as he leaps out the door, trying not to think about how he wasted his last dollars on taxi. He runs faster than he can ever remember running (not that he does it too often), and only slows down once he is in front of the massive glass doors.

"Six minutes. Not like I expected you to be on time. And if you're really going to be late, at least try to inform me correctly because we're on a schedule. 'About ten minutes late' does not equal six minutes late, understood?" Lindsey informs him as he arrives heavily panting.

"Yes, sure, yes, I'm so sorry- "

"What did I say about apologies? I don't understand why I have to keep repeating myself." She turns around on her high heels and leads him to the same receptionist guy who let him in on the day of his interview. Frank barely sees anyone else there besides them, and he wonders whether only assistants have to come to work at dawn. Fuck important people anyway. "I'd like a pass for him. He's going to bring his work contract down after he finishes today," Lindsey tells the guy.

"Sorry, ma'am, you know I can't do that. Guest sticker until I have the papers, that's the rule," he shrugs, not looking very apologetic.

Lindsey huffs impatiently. "He's Gerard Rush's new assistant. I think you can give him the freaking pass, Mr... Bob Bryar," she squints at his nametag.

Frank’s eyes widen as the poor guy turns pale and starts going through a drawer, pulls out a white plastic card, types something in the computer and swipes it on the automatic door for the first time before handing it to the couture bitch. She smirks at him. Why is this fucking Gerard guy treated like royalty?

"There ya go, ma'am, m'sorry for the inconvenience."

She ignores him and sticks the card in Frank's hand, who mouths a 'sorry' at this Bob guy before letting himself in and stepping into an elevator. Lindsey presses button 38 and the doors close.

She immediately gets her phone out and starts texting, while Frank awkwardly examines the floor, trying to avoid seeing his reflection in the mirror, but he can imagine how terrible he looks even before Lindsey decides to comment on it.

"If you had any doubt when you were choosing your outfit this morning, yes, you do represent _Runway_ from now on. Just a, uh, reminder," she informes him in a monotone voice, not once looking up from her phone.

Frank does not respond, silently praying that no one will notice his tattoos. This is the first time in his life he is not proud of the ink covering his skin; usually, he is telling everyone who is even remotely interested stories behind each and every design, loving how his tattoos remind him of every important thing in his life.

They finally reach the main floor of _Runway_ (according to Lindsey, the magazine occupies five floors out of Elias-Clark's forty in the 110 story building) and Frank has to notice that not even the receptionist girl is there yet.

"The two of us are always the first to arrive, usually the last to leave as well, although that varies. That means we have to let ourselves in which can sometimes be a bit tricky..."

After entering a code on the panel next to the entrance, they enter the massive, empty office while she babbles on and on about the job, marching into the bullpen for the two assistants and sitting down. Frank notices after a few minutes that he will probably forget half of the stuff she is saying so he grabs his phone and starts typing the important stuff into his note app. It is near seven when he thinks she is finally finished and he can see some people wandering in the office.

She lets out a deep sigh and clasps her manicured hands together.

"Okay. Quick summary, then I’ll have to introduce you to some people. No personal business at work. Phone calls always answered, _especially_ from Gerard - I'm going to give you your business phone in a few minutes. Never ever _ever_ leave the desk if I'm not here and allow you to. And Frank, one thing I forgot," she looks in his eyes for the first time during the whole morning, and weirdly, he is aching for a simple 'good luck' from this lunatic woman. "Fresh coffee should be available in under a minute at any given time. Exactly as he likes. Remember that."

Oh well.

“Also, we are doing completely different jobs. Which basically means you get to do the time-consuming and boring stuff while- “

“Ooh, I get it! You’ll do the interesting part of the fashion assistant job. Wow. Congrats, girl,” he cuts her off, smiling annoyingly.

A guy’s laughter echoes in the office. Frank turns to the now-open door and he can see the flaming homosexual from the day of his interview. “Well, Linds, he might look like the tattooed love child of Janis Joplin and Sid Vicious, but the kid is right about some stuff.”

Lindsey rolls her eyes. “Pete. Good timing, as always.”

Pete smiles at her as Frank stands up. “You probably didn’t mean that as a compliment, but I could imagine worse things than being the kid of a Sex Pistols member.” He awkwardly sticks out his hand and the other grabs it firmly. “Frank Iero.”

“Pete Wentz.” He studies him before his eyes land on his shoes. _What is everyone’s problem? They are goddamned black Converses._ “Interesting choice,” he raises his eyebrows. "Definitely an interesting choice from Gerard's part as well. But we all know that Mr. Rush never makes mistakes, now don't we?" There is just something about his stare and little smile that unsettles Frank.

“As I was saying…” Lindsey interrupts, pushing herself out of her chair, “ _I_ get to go to Paris this year. I will sit in the front row of the Chanel and Valentino shows with Gerard. I’ve been waiting for this for years and no punk oh-I’m-such-above-this-crap guys will ruin it.”

Frank presses his lips together, but he cannot help the comment coming out. “You’ll have no contest for that honor.”

Pete flashes a grin at him while Lindsey ignores what he just said. “Come on, we have to get started and I haven’t even introduced you to anyone.”

For the next twenty minutes, it is just a whirlwind of names and faces, mostly of beautiful, much too skinny girls in immaculate outfits – _hey, I’m Sarah and that’s Kristin, editorial staffers; oh, that’s Kitty, Frank, she’s fab; I’m Eliza, I just popped over to see Pete, oh yeah, I used to be the senior assistant…_

Frank ignores the comments on his appearance (approximately twenty-four, it’s like self-esteem camp) and smiles at the few who wish him a good first day (three and a half, he honestly can’t decide if that Kat girl was serious or not). Pete comes over after he has met everyone whom Lindsey declared to be important and winks at him.

“Enjoying yourself?” he smirks. “Use this time wisely, before Gerard comes in. Suit up, maybe.” He holds up something for Frank, and he notices the pair of fancy shoes.

He laughs nervously. “No way, man. Just – thanks, really, but no.”

“Well, I’m sure individuality and not conforming to certain things are appreciated at some places, but _Runway_ is not one of those, honey.” He smiles. “Oh, Frank, Frank, you still have a lot to learn. No worries, though, you came to the best place.”

He steps back, spreads his arms dramatically and drops the shoes, while editors and models try not to bump into him in their rush. He beams at Frank and yells:

“WELCOME TO THE FUCKING DOLLHOUSE, BABY!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Condé Nast (who publishes Vogue) was the first company to move to One World Trade Center after it was rebuilt? And that it has 73 elevators? I didn't know either but Wikipedia does.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos because they make my little heart melt! <3


	3. Cold and Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of unusual tasks and never enough time.

With Pete's unusual misfortune, Gerard makes his entrance just as he is yelling out to Frank. Everyone disappears as the editor-in-chief stops behind the shorter man, his eyes burning a hole in Pete's nape. He obviously cannot see their boss behind him while the new assistant freezes and contemplates what the hell to do. He later suspects it’s the widened eyes that tell Pete something is terribly wrong and he spins around, facing the absolute horror, the most awful thing that could ever possibly happen to -

"Hiya, boss. Decided to be an early bird today? I already told you last week, you really shouldn't mess up that nice schedule of yours," he chirps, perfectly calm and unaffected – even clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

Frank is about to prepare for the storm, but Gerard just fucking shrugs. "Since none of my incompetent assistants were capable to get me an even remotely decent new hairdresser, I was able to come in earlier. The one who showed up was completely inadequate. Why nobody has standards here anymore?" he waves his hand around and Pete shakes his head sympathetically. Gerard swings his long leather coat and black handbag on Frank's desk and proceeds to his office. He’s wearing tight jeans and a baggy shirt with his scarf loosely tied on his neck, a decorated top hat sitting on his red locks – all black. He sits down in his chair and crosses his legs. "Eliza," he exclaims after a few seconds.

Frank still cannot move as he gapes at Pete. _Did he just..? ‘Hiya boss?’ What?_

"Eliza!"

Pete raises his eyebrows. "He means you, honey. Move that pretty ass before he gets impatient."

Frank grabs a pen and a notebook from his bag and sprints into the office, trying to ignore the editor's "attaboy". Where the fuck did Lindsey go?

"Yes, Gerard?" he asks with a small smile that goes unnoticed. Of course Gerard wouldn’t bother to look at him.

"I need the jackets for the Testino shoot. Also, call Billie from Elite and tell him that I need the portfolio if he wishes to continue working with the magazine. I need it now, and I don’t want a single model above size zero, understand? They need to be skinny; but not like those awkward lanky teens from last time. I want slim _and_ graceful. I want _women_. Make sure that he has no illusions about the fact that we have hundreds of other great agencies waiting in line. Then get out and send in Pete,” he orders without taking a single breath. “And, for the thousandth time, I don’t understand why you can’t get me a hairdresser, Eliza. Do you seriously think what I ask for is too much?"

Frank looks up from his notes. “Um.” Gerard picks up a folder and starts flipping through its content, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He opens his mouth and closes it again, not sure what to say. “I was – uh, it’s actually my first day here, so…”

“And that interests me because?” Gerard asks distractedly, his finger tracking an outline of a shape on the photograph in his hand.

Frank gulps. “The hairdresser. I didn’t know because you didn’t tell me before.”

That was a mistake.

Gerard looks at him, ice-cold eyes piercing through his own. “Oh. I see. As far as I’m concerned, you were informed on Saturday that you are hired. Am I correct?”

“Yeah,” he replies in a barely audible voice.

“Can you tell me what day it is, Eliza?”

Asshole, asshole, asshole. There is no way he is going to give him the pleasure of saying Monday. _Come up with something witty, Frank. Don’t you dare say Monday._

But it’s too early and he’s way too tired for this. “Well. Monday…?” he winces. Fucking witty.

Gerard nods as if he was talking to a mentally retarded six-year-old. “Exactly. That means you had one,” he holds up a finger, and then another, “two full days to find a hairdresser. Forty-eight hours, thirty-two if counting sleep. Now, do – you – think it’s really that hard to do as I ask? Especially when you’re _paid_ to do it?”

Frank decides to just leave it at that, so he casts down his eyes, shakes his head, apologizes and scans his notes quickly. Gerard lets the problem go as well, luckily, and Frank is just about to turn away when he realizes just how vague the instructions were. "Which jackets do you need for the shoot?" he asks with furrowed eyebrows before Gerard cuts him off with a flick of his finger. Carefully manicured, metallic blue nail polished finger, to be exact.

"Bore someone else with your questions. And send in Pete. That’s –" He seems to notice something, or maybe the absence of something in that moment, because he looks around, pursing his lips. "Where is my coffee?" he squints – and that is when Lindsey arrives, panting and carrying four paper cups. So that’s where she went, thank God.

Gerard crosses his arms, and watches as she places them on the desk while babbling about how sorry she is and that he usually comes in later than this, while he drums his fingers impatiently. Frank gets himself together and turns around before he decides to scold him again for something – walking right into a smirking Pete just outside the office.

“Oh hey Eliza, dear.”

 _Dickhead_. “If you think you are funny then- “ he gulps, not sure how to finish, still too shocked by Gerard’s behavior. “-you’re really, really not.” He mentally facepalms. Way to be cool and sassy, Iero.

Pete snorts and pats his shoulder. “Heard he wants me. Next time he calls for you, don’t ask questions, sweetheart, just go in, make your cute little notes, come back out and do as he said. Right now, you should be telling me that Gerard wants me in his office while simultaneously calling Elite on one phone and getting help to locate those jackets on the other. An oh yeah, eavesdropping is fashion people’s _favorite_ hobby,” he clicks his tongue and winks and then strides away.

Frank tries and fails not to stare at him as he fishes out the phone Lindsey gave to him earlier from his pocket, already filled with the numbers of every designer, photographer, editor, model and celebrity considered important right now – and their assistants, because, naturally, they all have to prove that they take themselves too seriously _to answer the damn phone_.

He scrolls down and down in the list of endless contacts. Elite. Billie. Elite, Billie, Billie… Oh yes. He taps on the name and prepares for a torturously long wait, but they pick it up just after two rings. “Billie Joe Armstrong’s office. How may I help you?” a woman’s voice responds.

“Hello, I’d like to talk to… um, Mr. Armstrong,” Frank mumbles while rubbing his face. He is so damn tired and it’s still in the morning – he has no clue how he will survive.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment, but I’ll leave a word if you’d like,” she replies without missing a beat, with a voice that’s clearly telling him that she has much better things to do right now.

Shit. Frank has a feeling Gerard will not accept that as an answer, so he takes a deep breath and uses the card he really did not want to – at least not immediately on his first day. “Just tell him it’s Gerard Rush’s assistant.”

She suddenly perks up and starts apologizing – jut as he thought she would. “In that case, of course, I can get him on the line, or at least I think so, yeah – just, oh! Sorry, sorry, wait a sec…” he hears the girl’s muffled “Mr. Armstrong”, some irritated hassle and then, miraculously, a high pitched man returns on the line.

“Excuse me for the wait, Lindsey, long time no see. How can I help you today, gorgeous?” he asks.

“Um, it’s actually the new assistant. Frank. Iero. Frank Iero. Yep,” he jabbers while chanting _shut up, Frank, shut up_ inside his head. Introduction just as impeccable as everything he has done so far, not to mention the guy probably does not care what his name is.

“Lovely to meet you, Frank,” Armstrong announces. “Well, at least like this, on the phone,” he adds after a few seconds of awkward silence. Somewhere deep in his still-foggy mind Frank knows he is supposed to ask something but he honestly cannot remember what. He manages to look at his notes and shakes his head as if he was trying to get rid of the dull ache drumming there relentlessly.

“Um, Gerard told me he needs the portfolio. Um, no one above size zero, and no lanky teenagers, but women, I guess? Yeah. He – he said that one. Also, he really needs it now. Like, ASAP.” Frank has a feeling his new boss is already impatient and will slaughter either him or Billie if he does not get what he wants in this very moment. He almost starts musing on how, in that regard, he’s very similar to a defiant four year old before Armstrong’s chuckle interrupts his thoughts.

“What do you mean by that?”

Frank almost started explaining the abbreviation when he realized the question is possibly about something else. “He said that, I quote, he needs it now if you’re planning on continuing to work with the magazine.”

There is a tense silence for a few seconds and Frank really doesn’t know how Armstrong will react.

“Well, if Gerard says so, I guess we have no choice. Just tell him it’ll be there by… um. Six in the afternoon, I suppose? That okay, Francis?”

Frank just lets the stupid name pass unmarked. “Can’t you do earlier than that, _Billie_? Gerard informed me that _Runway_ has many other agencies to work with.”

The man snorts. “Now, listen to me,” he starts in an almost threatening voice. “We represent models such as Rosie Huntington-Whiteley and Naomi Campbell and unless he wants to make sure that the big names never ever work with his goddamn magazine again, I suggest he waits a few hours for the newbies. We weren’t even supposed to set up the fresh team until next week, Jesus.”

Frank gulps and feels his fingers tremble on the phone, anxiety already starting to build in the pit of his stomach. He starts beating a rhythm with his fingertips to cover it up from Lindsey, who has already come out from the office and is typing something now at her desk. She looks up after a few seconds of silence though, and stares at him.

“Well, get off the phone, Frank, we don’t have all day,” she hisses through gritted teeth.

“Wait a second, Lindsey,” he whisper-shouts back.

“What you’re sayin’?” Armstrong cuts in, his voice dripping with impatience.

“Um, nothing! Can’t you bring it here by, I don’t know, two p.m.?” even that sounds way too late for him, but definitely better than six.

“Told you, no can do.”

“Frank, finish the chatting! What could possibly last so long?” Lindsey repeats herself.

“I’m not fucking chatting-“

“What?” Armstrong asks again, and that tips Frank over and he gives up.

“Okay. Six. Not a minute later, though.”

The other just huffs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” and disconnects.

Someone please kill him.

* * *

“What? I can’t fucking hear you, Lindsey!” he screams into the phone pressed painfully between his cheek and shoulder. It’s a little askew, so he is not really talking into the microphone, neither putting his ear on the speaker, but it’s really the best he can do right now.

After failing to convince Armstrong to get the portfolio to the office earlier but managing to get the phone number of supposedly the best colorist in the city, Lindsey sent him on his mission to find out what jackets Gerard needs exactly – only to come up with more and more questions. It quickly turned out that they were for an Armani shoot, but when he showed up in their 5th Avenue store, things started to get a little complicated. First of all, the very minute he walked up to an employee to ask for help, they all suddenly found something better to do, so he just awkwardly shuffled around the shop for a few minutes before one of the twentysomething girls took pity on him and asked with a condescending smile if she could help him. Then came the part when she did not believe for tortuously long minutes that he was Gerard Rush’s new assistant (which may or may not have ended in Frank saying inappropriate things and a “sir, I’d like to ask you to leave before I’m forced to have someone escort you out”) but just before he got himself kicked out, a life-saving phone call to Lindsey confirmed that yes, he was indeed the new assistant and she quickly apologized, though still eyeing his tattoos suspiciously.

However, when she told the girl that he needs jackets and realized he has no clue what style, what color or how many his boss requires, they quickly shut the store down in sheer panic and all four girls dug into the latest collection to find something that might please Gerard. About twenty minutes later, they asked his opinion about the twelve women’s and seven men’s jacket they presented him (for future reminder, “pretty, I guess?” while holding back a snicker is definitely not a good answer) and packed it all up in no less than seven massive Armani bags. He exited the shop very much resembling an emo Paris Hilton after a shopping spree, while the employees made him promise a thousand times to send Mr. Rush their love. _Sure thing, ladies, sure thing._

But now he is running up and down on Fifth Avenue because he cannot catch a taxi and Lindsey has been calling him for five minutes non-stop so he had no choice but to pick up the phone, but as it turned out, it was perfectly useless since he cannot hear a thing, so he just starts waving with both arms for a goddamn cab, mobile in one hand. Now he regrets refusing the _Runway_ car, telling Lindsey just cash for taxi will be okay. How do people in movies do this? After finally getting one, climbing in and telling the driver the address, he returns on the line, just to find her in hysterics.

“FRANK!” she screeches, and he has to turn down the volume a bit before he can answer.

“Yep?” he asks, trying not to sound too cheerful but still so glad that he can sit down finally.

“I’ve been calling you for ages! Where _are_ you?” she replies, clearly horrified with him.

“On my way back from Armani,” he replies while mentally preparing for the insults. He looks out on the street as the car turns on Madison, trying to catch the designer names on the boutiques rushing by, just so he knows where to go next time. Oscar de la Renta. Lana something. Michael Kors…

“How the hell can this take so long?! Get back here right now! Gerard moved the run-through and it’s starting in ten minutes.”

Oh no, no, no. “There is no way I can get back in time. It’s twenty minutes at best.”

Lindsey just disconnects while muttering “oh my God”. Frank tries not to get even more stressed and just admire the oh-so-pretty buildings, but he is unable to relax. They hit a red light and his eyes settle on a comically small dog sniffing at a lamp post. He smiles and tightens his hold on the bags.

* * *

He makes it back in twenty-two minutes and it takes another four to get up with one of the elevators and inside the office, but oh how he wishes he just stayed inside the taxi instead. Five sets of disapproving eyes land on him while he stands there, panting. “Excuse me for being late, Gerard, here are all the jackets and I’m really, I’m so fu- I’m so sorry,” he rambles on and on and tries to unpack the paper bags but just succeeds in dropping all of them unceremoniously all over the floor. Lindsey runs over with a murderous look and collects them all, Frank mouthing a silent thank you. She then works her magic and somehow all the previously empty racks are covered by Armani in seconds.

Gerard purses his lips but does not comment and walks over to examine the display. Just as Frank turns to leave, naively thinking that he’s finished here, his boss’ slightly nasal voice hits his ears once again. “Eliza! What is this supposed to be?”

Frank spins around and stares dumbly at the racks. “Um. Ja-jackets?” Is this a tricky question?

Gerard scoffs. “This, this is not a jacket. This is a cardigan. That one is a blouse and over there, that’s a gilet. Not to even mention that awful shirt-jacket. And why, for God’s sake, would you bring me anything lambskin? And why do I even see azure? That’s just awful. Pete, tell me, why would anyone even think that azure is acceptable? And do – do I see that right? Is that in ramie? God, it looks like a crumpled raincoat. And the others are just plain boring. I’ve seen all of these before. Boring, boring…” he holds up a dark blue jersey jacket. “… plain horrifying.”

He closes his eyes and rubs his temple before he takes a second look. He keeps shaking his head and pursing his lips through it all – Frank wants to disappear. “Maybe this will do? What do you think, Pete?” He holds up a red godet jacket and gives it to the thick-lipped model who quickly slips it on.

Pete spins her around. “We could make it work. I’m thinking a Neil Barrett skirt from his pre-collection, maybe. Of course, that is only if we don’t go full Armani,” he says while straightening the sleeves on the model. “And I just love the raffia effect.” A woman in the background nods along and hums in agreement.

“Oh yes, with the right accessories…” Gerard muses. The clacker standing behind him rushes over to the other side of the room and comes back with multiple earrings and bracelets. He picks a few of them up and waves her away.

* * *

After another thirty minutes of making the model try on overpriced and completely identical belts, scarves, rings and shoes, all while discussing the skirt, Gerard agrees on something with Pete and the woman (who does nothing productive except agreeing with whatever he says) and decides to postpone choosing the other outfits until tomorrow, because “these jackets are ridiculous”. Frank could cry from happiness when he realises this means he can go home, that he survived his first day.

Gerard dismisses everyone and exclaims his annoying “Eliza!” right after that, and Frank really hates himself for reacting to it instinctively. He wants to go home, he has to catch up on his sleep and annoy Mikey some more before moving out, for fuck’s sake.

Surprisingly, he finds Gerard’s eyes on him this time, instead of a paper or the phone in his hand. “Yes?”

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds before he puts one of his hands on his hip and opens his mouth. “I can’t work like this. The portfolio is still not here and I need to leave. And not only what you brought was perfectly useless, you were also late, which is the main problem here. But, you know…” his eyes start to wander down to his plain t-shirt, continuing to the slightly torn jeans and the black chucks, painfully slowly. He shakes his head when he reaches the shoes. As his stare goes up on his body again, he scrunches up his nose slightly and presses his lips together. “…it’s not like I expected much better anyway.”

Frank freezes and just stands there for a few seconds, mouth gaping. He feels both hot and cold all over, all of his blood rushing to his cheeks. Gerard raises his eyebrows. “That’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone need visuals?! These were the ones Frank brought from Armani: [cardigan](http://cdn.yoox.biz/39/39505383MX_13_n_f.jpg) // [blouse](http://cdn.yoox.biz/38/38425704dn_13_n_f.jpg) // [gilet](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41513745uo_13_n_f.jpg) // [shirt-jacket](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41521572xo_13_n_f.jpg) // [lambskin](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41501556QG_13_n_f.jpg) // [azure](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41512813BG_13_n_f.jpg) // [ramie](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41531797sa_13_n_f.jpg) // [jersey](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41511239ao_13_n_f.jpg) // and the amazing [godet](http://cdn.yoox.biz/41/41505745eo_13_n_f.jpg)  
> Also, check out the [Saint Laurent Spring 2015 Menswear](http://www.style.com/slideshows/fashion-shows/spring-2015-menswear/saint-laurent/collection) if you have some time, it's brilliant. The [Neil Barrett 2014-2015 Fall/Winter Womanswear](https://www.pinterest.com/neilbarrett/neil-barrett-fall-winter-1415-womenswear-collectio/) is kinda good as well. Sometimes I forget what a fashion geek I am and then bam! amazing collections. I'm not a big Armani fan though.
> 
> Sorry for not updating in ages, I suck. Also, school! And my laptop broke too, but mostly, I just suck.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://frankiewhore.tumblr.com) if you want to because I'm lonely.
> 
> And thanks for reading! <3


	4. Remind Me

“So, how was the first week?” Mikey asks him during lunch on Saturday. That was the first sentence from him since the morning; not that he ever was a talkative person, but Frank expected a bit more than this. They are supposed to be celebrating that they have survived the beginning of their first ever full-time jobs – Frank one week, Mikey about one month. But the air is straining around them and Mikey is barely touching his food, answering questions with one word answers or grunts. They haven’t had time to talk all week even though they live together, so saying that Frank was a little pissed off because of his current behavior would be an understatement.

“Great! Just perfect,” he spits, stabbing his fork into the pasta aggressively. “I got verbally harassed on a daily basis by about several hundred different people. Almost all of them implied that I should quit and go back to smoking pot and writing angsty poetry in my basement, because, y’know, it’s obvious that I was doing just that before; I was repeatedly told that even Choupette could do my job better than I do, but of course she doesn’t work as a fashion assistant, and do you know _why_ , Mikey?” Frank drops the fork and it crashes against the plate. As he leans forward, Mikey shakes his head, his eyes widened in surprise at the outburst. “Because she’s Karl Lagerfeld’s motherfucking _cat_! And guess what,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “she wouldn’t even need my job if she suddenly got her snooty ass kicked out, because she made four million _last year alone_. Four million US dollars. A fucking cat, Mikey!” he throws his hands up in the air while gaping in disbelief. He’s half aware that what he just said doesn’t really make sense, but after the week he head, he just doesn’t care. 

He leans back and starts rubbing his eyes. “And the others, they are nothing compared to my boss. He’s… he’s crazy. Like, seriously, mental institute-level crazy. And I’m not joking or exaggerating. He probably has very deeply buried problems. Which would be, you know, fine, but he decided that he has to take it out on all his editors and assistants and whatever, and – and he’s not happy unless everyone around him is terrified and slightly nauseous. A model broke down crying because he told her she looks like an anorexic horse, for God’s sake! Who says that? Who fucking says that, Mikey?” he cries, pushing away his plate, not too hungry anymore. The couple sitting next to them stare at him blatantly and the guy asks for the bill. 

Mikey snorts at that and Frank has to fight the urge to punch him in the face. “I don’t know.”

“Crazy people! That’s who,” Frank mutters and checks his phone instinctively. He knows there is no way in hell he would miss a call with the current ringtone he has but he’s not risking anything. Lindsey or whoever tampered with it set the most obnoxious and annoying tune for him before he got it. He tried changing it, but of course, no luck.

Mikey turns to him with his full body now, pushing his own plate away as well. “So, he’s calling you guys on weekends too or what?” he asks with a penetrating gaze and Frank drops the phone back down on the table. It’s the second time he gets awfully odd for no reason about him having this job. He furrows his brows.

“Well I don’t think it’s beyond him. But Lindsey told me he’s out of town now,” he adds. “He went to the Hamptons with his pretty model boyfriend for the weekend,” he says with an eye roll.

“Oh,” Mikey stays silent for a few seconds but Frank can’t read his poker face this time. It’s rare he shuts him out like this, reminding Frank of the times when they just met and Mikey was still a partying mess of a college freshman, verging on being an alcoholic. He never wants that back, and not just because he was the one regularly cleaning up the contents of his stomach after the lights flickered out and all the partygoers stumbled home, only leaving the stench of cigarettes and cheap beer behind, never giving a flying fuck about who was hosting the party that time. Ray calls Mikey a social butterfly sometimes. Frank grits his teeth together and doesn’t say anything, because Ray never went to Mikey’s parties.

Then, as if something has finally snapped, Mikey scrunches up his face and then reaches out with his fork to shove Frank’s leftover pasta between his lips, forgetting all about his boss’s antics. “Nice,” he mumbles with his mouth full, spewing deep red sauce all over the glossy white table.

That earns him a kick in the shin. “Dude, gross!”

Mikey swallows and throws his used napkin at him with his signature half-smile on his face. Frank knows him enough by now to accept that it’s the best apology he’s going to get for his all-day silence and general weirdness.

Whatever. It’s not like he’d ever want a better friend than Mikey Way.

“And how’s life at Eyeball?” he asks, right after flicking his own crumpled napkin at the other’s head.

* * *

His ringtone goes off at six a.m. sharp, and for a hazy second he thinks he’s forgotten to turn off the Bells of Doom, also known as his alarm – but no, he wakes up way earlier on weekdays, and what’s up with these impossibly timed phone calls anyway? He tries very hard to use his most condescending voice as he croaks out a “ _what_?” 

“Oh, Frankie, Frankie, that’s not very nice, now is it?” a familiar voice purrs in his ear.

“Pete? Pete, fuck you, alright? Not funny,” he groans and promptly ends the call. Pete can go to hell for all he cares.

The shrill beep-beep of his phone starts up almost immediately.

“No, Pete, no, no. Fuck off. Saturdays and Sundays are mine. All mine. Go and ask someone else to pick up your dry cleaning or whatever it is you think you should be calling _me_ of all people for,” he tells him right before disconnecting.

Then something hits him and he calls back urgently. Pete answers before the first ring. “And screw you anyway, I’m not gonna pick up your dry cleaning! Pick up your own fucking dry cleaning, I’m not _your_ assistant! Now go to hell, I need to continue my beauty sleep _at this very moment_ ,” he exclaims right before tapping the red button.

Once again, Pete calls and Frank doesn’t have the time to open his mouth before he’s cut off. “Well I’ve seen your face and let me tell you – it’s not exactly working, so I decided to just save all that unnecessary effort on your part and wake you up, honey!” Frank can almost see his jazz hands.

“Ugh. What do you want?” Frank asks, rolling over on Mikey’s sofa in a vain attempt to get in a more comfortable position. He tries not to think about that this is the last time he sleeps here. Or well, this _was_ the last time before he got rudely interrupted.

“Right now? Some champagne, a good pair of Prada oxfords, not brogues – and a male supermodel wearing them, of course” he sighs dramatically. “And by that, I mean nothing but them. But ah, well, if you’re the one offering, hmm… I wouldn’t usually accept, but you know what I say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my unusually little friend.”

“You’re disgusting. I’m hanging up.” He doesn’t, though, because Pete would only continue to harass him and he’s too afraid to mute his phone in case Gerard loses his sunglasses at the Hamptons and has to call Frank to find it for him with his nonexistent superpowers. Or something similar.

“You’re such a meanie. All I ever wanted was to invite you to a party and this is what I get! Unbelievable,” he draws out the last word in emphasis.

“A party?” Frank asks suspiciously.

“Yes! A nice little party. You know, the thing with people and alcohol and music? Just not in a smelly club or with cheap vodka for a change. It might be a bit hard to adapt, but I will be there with you every step, holding your hand.” Frank mutes his microphone in an answer, so Pete starts fidgeting on the other side of the line, thinking that he disconnected again. “Frank! Come back, my dear! I’m lost without you!” he yells once he realizes that he’s still there.

Frank unmutes and squints at the ceiling as if Pete could see his face. “And what’s the catch?”

“Lots of famous people there. Actors, singers, models… but also editors, critics, writers. I’m going to introduce to you some of them if you want to.” He takes a deep breath. “But. There’s going to be loads of gorgeous people there. And I need you to do me a favor.”

“I really don’t like where this is going.”

“You have to be my wingman for the night,” Pete declares zealously.

“Fuck off!” Frank squeals and almost drops his phone. “You’re kidding, right?”

Pete giggles. Frank honestly didn’t know anybody could actually giggle in real life past the age of five. “Obviously. It’s a Runway party, so you have to go anyway. Lindsey was supposed to invite you, but she’d rather wear clear bra straps than make your life easier. Turns out I was right, she didn’t tell you! Not that you should thank me or anything. Just saying.” He pauses and only continues when the silence makes it clear that no, Frank won’t thank him indeed. “Monday, starts at 9 pm at the W – that’s on Times Square. It’s not black-tie, but you’ll never live it down if Gerard sees you come in your usual attire, so… Just FYI, my offer still stands.”

So far, Pete dumped an outrageous neon green (designer) shirt, a scandalously tight pair of (designer) jeans, a complete bag of men’s make-up (he stared at the eyeliner for three minutes straight before Lindsey snapped at him), three pairs of shoes (Tom Ford, Berluti and Givenchy, as he was kindly informed), and on his first, very memorable Friday, a red lace panty on his desk. A note was attached to it, saying _hit me up anytime you finally realize how horrible your wardrobe is. xxx Pete_.  He threw it in his face from behind his desk, right when Gerard opened his door. Not like it made any difference whether he was inside or outside his office because there are glass doors everywhere, but this way Frank could relish his death glare without anything but air separating them. Delightful. (The panty was designer too. Lindsey didn’t tell him the brand.)

Frank cringes both at the memory and the thought of being the receiving end of the evil eye again and gives in. “Alright. You can play dress-up with me.” Pete whoops with joy before he can finish. “Pete. Just this once. I mean it. Pete. Pete? You hear me?”

He stops squealing in faux happiness and takes a deep breath. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. However, I must go now, I’m afraid. I have a very important event to attend. _Au revoir, mon râleur_!”

Frank drops the phone on the ground. He wants to go back to sleep, to grab his non-existent running shoes and hit the asphalt outside, to punch someone, to go on a Runway murder spree, something. He pulls his pillow over his head and screams.

He has to check the goddamn phone after that in case the screen has cracked because of his melodrama. It glows back at him in the dark without a single scratch, the too-bright white _06:18_ laughing at him.

* * *

He grabs the last cardboard box and starts heading in as Jamia pays the taxi driver. The only upside of not owning any furniture himself is that he didn’t need a truck to move all his stuff over to Ray’s place. He jogs up the stairs and pushes open the second door on the right once he reaches the third floor. Ray laughs quietly when he sees how hard Frank’s panting from not taking the elevator. He drops the box and flips him off. 

The thing is, Ray can say anything he wants, but his flat _is_ a lot bigger than Mikey’s. It wasn’t massive or modern, but it was just comfortable, even for two people who under no circumstances wanted to share the same bed. The space was cluttered but clean, and it constantly smelled like cinnamon, even though Ray swore multiple times that he never baked anything with cinnamon in it. Just the sight of it all put him in a better mood than he usually was in over at Mikey’s; everything was bright yellow and soft green mixed with vivid patches of red and blue and orange. Frank was never a big fan of colors, but he had to admit that living in this burst of butterfly vomit was better than Mikey’s fifty shades of grey. Mikey simply didn’t seem to bother, he barely went home for anything else than to shower and sleep anyway.

It’s hours later, when he’s already packed out the essentials and Jamia left with a kiss on the lips for him and a peck on the cheek for Ray, it’s after they crack open two beers and lean back on the couch, when Frank feels that he’s ready for this. He can do this. He unlocks his personal phone in a rush, opens his calendar app and clicks on last Monday’s date as Ray flips through channels. He types in _Runway – 1yr to go_ and saves it with a strange feeling of both satisfaction and stomach-turning excitement. He almost sends a thank you message to Pete for offering help in his own, uncommon way.

“ _Better Call Saul_?” Ray asks him, stopping on AMC.

“Perfect.”

He doesn’t look at his Runway mobile. He would hear that horrifying sound from six feet under once it started up.

* * *

“Lindsey!” 

Frank’s head shoots up as he’s woken up from his daydream and he starts flailing, his leg jolting backwards. That quickly ends up being a mistake as he successfully kicks his chair and it spins out from underneath him, and he can’t even comprehend what’s happening let alone catch himself before he’s falling ungracefully on his ass. The ultimate cheap Hollywood comedy moment comes when the chair crashes into a redhead speed walking behind him, sending her to the ground as well.

The only significant progress that has been made last week in the Runway office was Gerard realizing that no, he doesn’t have an assistant named Eliza. He didn’t care to remember two names, of course, so Frank now gets a whiplash every single time Gerard screams ‘Lindsey’ and everyone looks at him like _he_ is the idiot. He suspects Gerard has hidden cameras in the office and no one dares to say anything negative about him so they won’t get fired and never be employed in fashion or publishing ever again. On the downside, his awakening also caused Lindsey to act like she has suddenly won at least one Nobel Prize (and two Oscars), so now she parades around the office like she’s the queen. Which yeah, she does _look_ the part, but literally everyone else in here does, too – and considering her personality as a whole, Frank remains unimpressed.

With a groan, he clutches the edge of the desk and gets back on his feet. He turns to help the girl up, but somebody has already beat him to it and he settles for muttering a half-hearted apology before snatching  his notepad and running to Gerard. At least Lindsey doesn’t laugh when he passes her desk. Out loud.

He’s sitting in his chair as usual, playing with the always present black scarf draped across his shoulders. He should look like a pretentious asshole with that scarf and his impossible hair, he really _should_ , but even Frank can’t deny the fact that he just… he doesn’t. He looks like somebody he’d want to be when he grew up or somebody he might get inappropriate ( _platonic_ ) crushes on because of their sheer perfectness.

That is, until he opens his mouth. How he even got his current boyfriend is beyond Frank.

“Yes?” he forces out with a tight-lipped smile.

“Did you lose your phone?” Gerard asks, twirling the end of the scarf between his fingers.

Frank doesn’t really get it but taps his pockets and yes, it’s there indeed. “No?”

“Then, did you get into a horrible accident yesterday, by any chance, and had to get taken into the hospital in such a rush that you completely forgot to take it with you?”

His mouth drops open. “No, Gerard?”

“Then, do you have any reasonable cause for not answering your work phone when it rings? You look like a smart little boy, I’m sure you have.”

Frank’s cheeks burn in shame as his boss doesn’t even spare a look at him. “I’m so sorry, Gerard, I didn’t think you would call on the weekend and I was moving, you know, and, if I had known, but, but I was just sure, so sure I’d hear it if it rang, because I always do so I must’ve been sleeping or something, and I, and I know I should’ve called back but I didn’t even look at it – I had to unpack, I’m. I’m sorry…” he trails off as Gerard sighs in disinterest.

“Sorry is just an excuse to make the same mistake again,” he crosses his legs and tucks a few loose locks behind his ear. His eyes close, and he touches his temple with just the tip of his fingers, feigning physical pain. “All your rambling gives me a headache. And your shoe,” he sighs. “I need the speech for tonight. I still want to go over it before the party so I wanted to have it this morning, but since you can’t do anything right, make sure it’s on my desk by seven. That’s all.”

Frank nods a few times and walks back out. He has no doubt that his face’s color could match Gerard’s hair and he has to take a few deep breaths before turning to Lindsey.

“Speech. I need to write him a speech. What speech?”

She looks up from the extremely important thing on her monitor and raises his eyebrows. “He’s accepting some unimportant award from some equally unimportant French committee before the main event starts. Just a few minutes long thing with all the proper commonplaces and ‘I wouldn’t be here tonight if it wasn’t for…’ and you’ll be fine.”

“Alright. Okay. I can do this. I can do this so hard, you don’t even know.”

She snorts as he sits down and opens a new document. “You still have to pick up his lunch and do a coffee run. Also, you need to confirm with his chef and he’ll need a jet and there’s some paperwork too with that, it’s all on the bulletin.”

He already has a rough two hundred words when he starts to have a bad feeling. His fingers stop in the air and he looks away from the screen.

“Lindsey?” he asks carefully.

“Yes?”

“Just because it’s a French committee, it doesn’t mean that he has to give his speech in _French_ , does it?” 

When she grins he already knows he’s fucked.

“Chop chop, Jersey boy,” she smirks. “It’s already past noon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I suck at this thing called devotion but I finished this chapter too yay!
> 
> Kudos and comments are the reason I breathe.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr, I'm [frankiewhore](http://frankiewhore.tumblr.com) <3


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